


alteration

by simaetha



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, Horror, M/M, Trauma, Vampires, abusive relationship tactics, boundary violation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: Sauron brings Celebrimbor back from the dead. More or less, anyway.





	

You choke, gasping for air, and then struggle to a crouch, skittering back until you can feel the wall behind you, all in one rush of motion. Your vision blurs, the lamplight hurting your eyes, hot and feverishly bright.

“What – “ you say, and pause to cough again, wetly, at the roughness of your voice. You feel _awful_. “Annatar, what – what _is_ this – “

“I think the phrase you may be looking for is _thank you_ ,” Annatar says, frowning down at you in evident irritation. He looks – sleekly well-groomed, wearing silks rather than armour, his hair bound back with a golden circlet; and yet for all that, somewhat less pleased with himself than you might have expected, given your last encounter.

“It’s not that I expect you to have any real appreciation of the effort involved, of course, but you might at least attempt to consider – “

“The hell with your _effort_ ,” you say, automatically, and – hesitate, trying to penetrate the confused haze that seems to be all you can remember of the recent past. The room – windowless; high-ceilinged – smells faintly of ozone and overwhelmingly of blood.

What you can remember is – not pain, but what comes after pain, the numb remote absence that remains when all else is gone, until even that fades. Until there is nothing left.

You are so hungry that you can hardly think.

“Annatar,” you say, in slowly coalescing horror. “What have you _done_ – “

“Yes, fine, you’re _welcome_ ,” Annatar says, folding his arms. “Your gratitude is as eloquent as always, Tyelperinquar. Anyone would think you’d rather have stayed dead.”

You touch at your face, spreading fingers over your eyelids, your hands unsteady. Reddish light glints from the polished-smooth finish of the basalt walls, seeming to stab at your retina whenever you open your eyes.

“Am I even _alive_?” you ask, shakily.

A brief pause.

“Well,” Annatar says, after a moment. “I’d like to see _you_ do any better.”

***

“So were you thinking,” you ask, trying to yank back against Annatar’s grasp on your wrist as he drags you along, “what, that you hadn’t perverted the laws of gods and men enough lately, you needed to keep up your atrocity quota – “

“Nonsense,” Annatar says, glancing at you and raising an eyebrow. “I thought better of you than that sort of reactionary squeamishness, Tyelperinquar.”

“So where – “ you start, then cut yourself off.

A series of corridors, stairways, all in the same smooth dark stone, as if someone took the inside of a mountain and carved a fortress from it as a single piece. Lamps; here and there, distantly, a hint of starlight, gleaming through a light-shaft or stairwell. It must be well after midnight, on whatever day it is.

You already know where you are. It isn’t difficult to guess.

“The Tower,” Annatar answers, unnecessarily, glancing back again with a half-smile. _Barad-dûr_. Annatar. _Sauron_. “Not exactly showing to its advantage, at the moment, of course; you can see more of it later. Don’t look so concerned, Tyelperinquar, you weren’t dead all _that_ long – “

There are guards following you at a little distance, by the clink of metal and the faint orc-stink. Your eyes are starting to hurt less, now, though everything still looks – not quite right, a deep red-purple texture to the shadows, starlight thin and pale. 

The orc-smell is stomach-turning. Your teeth ache. 

“Yes, it’s as if you hardly murdered me at _all_ ,” you snap. You stumble again as you try to tug away from him, half-slipping, hunger and weakness gnawing at you; his grasp halts your fall, although you knock a shoulder painfully against the stone of the corridor. “No. Seriously. Did you just get bored one day and think, oh, I know, time for some recreational corpse-desecration – “

Annatar pulls you along to an arched door-frame, the wood of the door reinforced with steel; his hand hot against your skin, despite your uncoordinated attempts at struggle. Opens the lock with a gesture – the gold of his Ring flashing on his hand – and sweeps through, still dragging you with him.

“It’s not exactly _recreational_ ,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. He lets go of his grip on your wrist, at last, and you back away, though he’s still between you and the door. “Although the technical challenges involved are quite interesting, actually – here, you can sit down, if you like.”

You take a moment to glance around, as Annatar signals briefly to the guards; then draw yourself up, forcing yourself to stand and steadily meet his gaze.

“I’m not telling you about the Rings I made,” you say. “You might as well kill me again right now, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Annatar pauses, and – raises an eyebrow, again.

“Yes, Tyelperinquar, I did _notice_ your disinclination to be helpful on that specific point.”

“What – “

You hesitate. The room around you is furnished – almost comfortable, despite the barred shutters. In the light spilling in from the corridor, you can make out rugs; silken hangings, to cover the stone of the walls; a vase with gold-traced patterns set out on the table. _This isn’t a cell_ , you think, trying to work out the trap.

A noise behind you, and you spin round, to where Annatar stands by the doorway. A guard scurries up, a squirming bundle in its hands, and holds it cringingly out.

You – freeze.

You are so _hungry_. You keep trying to think around it, shove it down, but it keeps coming back, the distant warmth beneath the stink of the guards, even Annatar’s hand on your own, you _can’t_ , but you can almost taste it already, you hardly even know what you want but you want it so _badly_.

“I’m – what are you _doing_ with that,” you manage, licking at the inside of your mouth, running your tongue over your teeth. “I didn’t think you had any interest in _livestock_ , of all things.”

Annatar takes the lamb from the guard, who backs away, and holds it out at arm’s length, wrinkling his nose at it. It bleats, helplessly, kicking in the air, all long awkward legs and soft shaggy coat.

“Well, you’re going to have to eat at _some_ point,” he says; though he looks almost as dubious as you are. “Let’s get this over with now, shall we?”

“I’m not eating anything that you give to me,” you say, feeling on firmer ground, at this. You dig your nails into your palms, the pain helping you focus.

Annatar sighs.

His hand flicks across the lamb’s throat, a sharp glint of metal between his fingers, blood starting to drip from the nicked flesh, as the animal bleats again, struggling pathetically.

It looks – it _smells_ so –

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away. Your teeth hurt, a sharp pain driving into your jaw; you keep swallowing again, convulsively, saliva welling up inside your mouth.

“Come _on_ , Tyelpe. I’m not going to keep holding this all night.”

His hand squeezes, a little; the flow of blood increases, dripping onto the floor, so vividly red that you can almost feel the weight of your pupils dilating. It smells so _good_. And you are so _hungry_ , you can’t – it’s _food_ , it’s _meat_ , why would you not –

You move. You snatch it from his hand, almost faster even than his reflexes, blood in your mouth, tearing at it, your teeth still painfully blunt, spitting out wisps of lambswool as you worry at its throat; as it jerks and cries; hot with life and now dying as you bite down and down again, its heart stuttering, and you want to eat and eat, you want to take its life in your mouth and bite down until it has nothing left.

You are crouched in the half-lit room, panting, animal blood thick on your mouth and smeared red over your hands and dripping from your jaw, the drained husk of flesh laid out on the stone at your feet.

You look down at it and start shaking again.

“Messy,” Annatar says, his nose wrinkling. He steps across, and sets a hand at your jaw, tilting your unresisting face up to his; mops delicately at your face with a corner of his sleeve. “Well. You’ll get better at it, I suppose.”

***

After a time, he leaves. You sit for a while, fingers trembling at your mouth, while the guards take away the remnants and hastily shut closed the door, polearms aimed at you as they back away.

Eventually, you get up and pace, running your hands over the walls and shutters.

The layout of the rooms you’re locked in is more than a little reminiscent of your own in Eregion, down to the arrangement of the furniture, a similarity in the texture and pattern of the fabrics. Once you have noticed this it becomes difficult to stop, and you prowl through the chambers, lifting ornaments and opening drawers, pulling out bath-soap and writing-supplies.

Instead of trying to pick the locks, you wash yourself, repeatedly, working scented oil under your fingernails until the raw-meat smell is only barely detectable beneath.

At dawn, you pry at the shutters, your hands unsteady, but your head aches so badly you can hardly see, and you end up curled miserably under the bed, pressing your cheek to the cool floor as you fall into empty, exhausted sleep.

***

“This is nonsensical,” you say, flatly, watching Annatar stand in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

You woke up after nightfall, feeling – not _better_ , exactly, but improved, at least; the ache in bone and muscle fading, faltering reflexes restored. The shutters turn out to open onto starlight, even the thin sliver of a new moon obscured by volcanic smog, and a long, steep drop into blackness.

Neither of you seem to have any trouble seeing in the dark. He blinks at you, looking faintly amused.

“As a general complaint about the state of the world, I certainly sympathise, but – ”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Fine, you tried to resurrect me and got it wrong, it doesn’t surprise me you’re ill-suited to playing Mandos. That doesn’t make me into an _entirely different creature_ – “

“You’re still _yourself_ , Tyelpe,” Annatar says, tilting his head to one side. “I think I might know a little more than you about how the process works, for the rest of it, though.”

He –

It’s not as if you could exactly _forget_.

 _Sauron_. You recoil, shoulders tensing, but he’s already turning away, holding the door open in clear expectation as he glances back.

“Come _on_ , Tyelpe,” he says, with the flicker of a half-smile.

***

The guards are still keeping a wary distance, skittish footfalls, the fast pace of their hearts. You trail after Annatar, glancing around, but – you’re still disoriented, struggling to map the fortress from the corridors you’ve seen; and you don’t, really, think you could get away so easily as that.

It’s not a long walk. A few turns, and the next doorway opens up into a courtyard, one side enclosed by soaring dark walls, the other – opening out, past the parapet, until you can see mountain and desert, the last traces of sunset purpling the clouds, and the lingering glow of fire in the heights of what must be Orodruin.

You drift towards the edge almost despite yourself, gazing out at the night sky, the jagged edges of the mountain peaks. When you look down, light twines through the hive of activity that winds in and out of the mountain’s base, making you blink and refocus – the glint of torches on steel armour, and the smoke and heat of foundries, working through the night.

Annatar settles beside you, an elbow on the parapet, glancing down with a brief look of satisfaction.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he says, sounding pleased.

You watch the golden sheen of his hair in the half-light, pooling on the stone where he leans, and dig your nails into your palms once more.

“Your slave-armies?” you ask. “I’ve seen them before, and I wasn’t all that impressed _then_ , either.”

“You know,” Annatar says, after a pause, “your commitment to self-sabotage is becoming remarkable, Tyelperinquar. Do you think there’s any actual _advantage_ in making me angry with you?”

The factories of Mordor continue to work, ceaselessly, below. In the darkness, you can see the bright traces of roads, torchlit causeways and passes.

“I have to amuse myself somehow,” you say. “ _Sauron_. If you’re planning to torture me again, can we get it over with? Although admittedly, having to stand around listening to you talk at me is already fairly painful – “

“ _Honestly_ , Tyelperinquar.”

You feel almost sick with anger.

“Do you think this is a _joke_ ,” you say. “Do you think you can – you can do _that_ to me – and then walk in and bring me along to, what, _admire the view_? What do you even _think_ you’re doing – do you bother to _think_ these days at _all_ – “

“I _thought_ you might be prepared to be reasonable, but apparently that continues to be too much to ask – “

You snarl, baring your teeth.

“Well,” Annatar says, coolly, “in _that_ case.”

He turns in a flicker of motion, shoving you back against the parapet.

“What – _stop_ that – “

You try to struggle away, turning your head to one side, but he takes your jaw in his hand, then holds your teeth apart with his fingers against your attempts to snap your teeth on them. You claw at his wrists, feeling stone against your back.

“Nnn – “

His fingers prod at the inside of your cheek, running over the soreness of your gums.

“Sharper teeth,” he says, dispassionately. “And I’ve noticed you flinching at the lamplight – most subjects experience some level of photophobia, it’s a trade-off for better night-vision.”

Saliva runs down your chin; you hiss at him, trying not to choke. The heat of his fingers makes you want to bite very badly, but he’s holding your mouth open, the leverage uncomfortable. You _hate_ this and you can’t seem to make it _stop_.

A finger probes at the root of one canine, and you wince, a shudder running down your spine. “Development appears within normal parameters – would you _stop_ trying to gnaw on me, Tyelperinquar, it’s undignified.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, rubbing them dry on your shoulder; you spit at him, then cough again, jerking away at once as he lets you free.

“ _Undignified_ – “

 “We can work on your self-control,” Annatar says, watching you, his eyes flat. “But this is how things _are_ now, Tyelpe.

“Are you thinking you can escape? Turn up on your kinswoman’s doorstep, with some tragic story about cruelly I treated you? Galadriel’s not that specific _kind_ of stupid, you’d be arrow-shot as soon as you set foot in Lórien.”

You rub at your throat, backing away from him, with one last glance at the landscape past his shoulder.

“So you _didn’t_ win,” you say, hoarsely, trying to stop your voice from shaking. “I was starting to think so. How does it feel, Annatar, giving up everything else you had for _this_ and _still losing_?”

***

The guards are afraid of you.

You pace, again. The bars in the windows aren’t impregnable – you’re sure you could find something metal in your rooms to chip away at the mortar with; the furnishings are poor security, for a jail cell – but that long, smooth drop is a more difficult obstacle. There’s probably a ledge you could catch, somewhere between this level and the ground. Probably.

You sit with your hands over your face for a while, thinking. Your breathing keeps speeding up, when you’re not paying attention, focus starting to unravel; you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to distract yourself.

Then you pick the lock.

It isn’t even particularly difficult. You could almost feel insulted.

The pair of orcs at the end of the corridor drop at once from attention to combat stance as you step out; you can hear their heartbeats start to race, fast and strong. One of them says something in guttural urgency – _get back_ , you think, or something like it.

You put your hands up, miming helplessness, and stand still, until they start to relax. This is a risk – that they will sound the alert at once – but your show of surrender seems to embolden them, and instead one jabs a polearm at you in an unmistakeable gesture: _get back in there, now_.

You shrug, smiling. Then you move.

You cross the space between yourself and the orcs in an instant, faster than you have ever been, and slap the polearm to one side, up and back, smacking the shaft into its holder’s face as you turn and hit the other in the throat. Then again, feeling cartilage give under your hand as it wheezes and starts to fall.

The other orc is –

– it’s an _orc_ , they’re not _people_ , and you can hear the hammer of its pulse, see the dilation of capillaries just under its skin as it snarls at you –

You bite it in the throat.

After a while, you remember what you were meant to be doing, and you get up and back away from it, wiping the blood from your mouth, and then turn and run.

***

It isn’t as difficult as you expected, from there.

Annatar is reliably, and relentlessly, _efficient_ ; and you’ve seen enough glimpses of stairways and passages to have something like a floorplan in your head. It takes time, ghosting into alcoves and antechambers at the hint of footsteps, occasionally retracing your path – but no fortress is built to stand against its own inhabitants, and you can find your way well enough.

Away from the guarded door of your own rooms, there are mortals, not just orcs. You wonder, sometimes, how much the Secondborn can sense of the world around them at the best of times; in the night, it feels as if you could walk as close to one as their own shadow, and never have them notice more than a faint chill at their back.

You are fast and quiet and your night-vision splinters impenetrable darkness into a thousand shades of red-purple-black, and you dig your nails into your palms and try to _use_ it.

It’s even easier, past the fortress gates.

You caught sight of roads and landscape from the parapet, earlier, the well-trafficked trade routes and the high causeway to Orodruin, neat lines spreading out across the shifting volcanic landscape. Away from these, the land is cracked dry mud, giving way to unstable layers of scree as the ground rises up into the foothills, on which you step lightly and with care.

It’s a long journey. But you know your own endurance. You have, of a surety, done harder things than this.

At the edges of your vision, the sky begins to lighten, sunrise glowing past the jagged mountain peaks.

***

Noise. Movement. A hand runs through your hair, and you turn your head, blindly, trying weakly to snap.

Gravel shifts beneath you, in the shade of the crevice where you half-buried yourself. Everything is hot and bright and you hurt, all over, a deep ache in your bones, heat running like fire over your skin.

“Shhh,” someone says, sympathetic, and you snap again, trying to follow the sound.

A hand at your cheek, careful, holding you in place.

Shadows, deepening.

Then there is hot liquid at your mouth, and you drink and drink, ravenously hungry, trying to lick at the bowl when it empties until there is more, it tastes so _good_ , you can hear yourself making a ragged noise as you swallow, desperate –

Satiety makes you drowsy. You curl into the darkness, pain fading, a hand stroking again through your hair as you fall inexorably into sleep.

***

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Annatar says, coolly. “Again. If you don’t want my assistance, Tyelperinquar, you’re going to have to stop making such a habit of this sort of thing.”

“ _What_ sort of thing?” you snap. “I didn’t _ask_ for your _help_. In particular, I didn’t ask to be – to be – “

The smell of blood still lingers. You swallow, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

The thick canopies set up overhead block out any hint of the world outside, a heavy and soothing black. Sat cross-legged beside you, Annatar works at a lap-desk by a single, half-dimmed lamp, the slight flame illuminating the movement of his hand as he writes, sharp characters in an unfamiliar script.

It ought to be stifling. You can feel the heat, but only as bare sensation, stripped of meaning or discomfort.

“I don’t care what you _asked_ for,” Annatar says. “If I did as you _asked_ , you would be, very pointlessly, dead, possibly twice over. I think it’s extremely clear which of us is displaying the better judgment in this particular scenario.”

He isn’t looking at you, still focused on the papers in front of him. You make yourself sit up, shoving away the cushion that someone has at some point placed under your head.

“Your design specifications are terrible,” you say, voice rough with anger. “It’s not as if the Sun is a startling new development these days, was building literally _any_ level of daytime functionality in just too much of a challenge?”

“Try it again when you’ve had a _little_ more than a day to adjust,” Annatar says, unmoved. “Or _don’t_ , actually. What _were_ you hoping to achieve with this, Tyelperinquar, other than I suppose your usual levels of futile aggravation – “

“Oh, are _you_ asking _me_ that?” you snap.

You move to face him in a crouch, watching him glance up at last to meet your gaze, eyes a gold-rimmed darkness in the dim light.

“Will you _stop_ acting like _I’m_ the one whose behaviour requires an explanation, here? What are you even trying to _do_ , Annatar – “

“I’m starting to wonder that myself,” Annatar says, his mouth thinning. “I can only suppose I’d managed to forget how irritating you are in the interim. Somehow.”

You sit back on your heels, looking at him, considering.

“You – missed me,” you say, trying the words out.

“I really _am_ starting to wonder why.”

Of all the –

“You _missed_ me,” you say again, incredulous. You can’t – you stumble over the thought, going back over the idea in your head, trying to make it fit together. “Annatar, did it not, at any point, occur to you that if you didn’t _want me dead_ , that would be very easy to achieve by _not killing me_ – “

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Annatar snaps, defensive. “Do you want me to start listing yours?”

“I can’t believe – “ you start, and put your hands over your face, palms pressed against your eyelids. “ _Annatar_ – “

Silence, while you watch the pulse of static behind your eyes and try to _think_.

“And bringing me back as a _vampire_ was your way of _fixing_ this?” you ask, a little plaintively. “I’m just trying to clarify my understanding of the situation, here – “

“If you’re going to keep asking _obvious questions_ – “

“No,” you say, dropping your hands and looking at him. “It really _isn’t_ obvious.”

He looks back at you, and then – half-smiles, unexpectedly, reaching up to stroke tangled hair back from your face, still gritty with dust; as you tense, forcing yourself not to shy away.

“You do insist on manufacturing unnecessary difficulties, Tyelperinquar,” he says, tone almost fond.

His fingers smooth against your cheekbone, warm in a way that makes you want to turn your head and taste them, palm settling against your jaw. You stop, considering the path of your own thoughts.

“You should probably stop calling things _unnecessary_ ,” you say, past the ache in your chest, “when what you clearly mean is _inconvenient for you_.”

Another smile, the golden eyes soft with darkness. He leans in.

You freeze, for a moment, caught between conflicting instincts, the heat of his mouth searing through you. Then –

 _Annatar_ , you think, helplessly.

And also thinking –

You kiss back, carefully at first and then harder, hands at his shoulders, twisting your fingers into the hair gathered at the nape and tugging his head back, until you hear his breathing hitch, the rise and fall of his chest speeding against your own.

“Tyelperinquar – “

“Are you expecting me to _forgive_ you?” you ask, fingers tightening in his hair; pulling, sharply. “Annatar, you _killed me_ – “

He makes a soft sound of breath, almost a laugh. When you push him back, catching at his wrist to mouth at his pulse, pressing a hard kiss against the thin skin over the veins, he lets you, shoving the papers in his lap away, the ink smearing.

You work your fingers into the silk of his robes; hold him down, until he lets you settle your weight against him, hands smoothing down your spine as you dig your nails into his hipbone, kissing his mouth, tasting heat and metal.

“Tyelpe – “

“Shhh,” you say, your voice coming out low and rough as you feel him shudder. You kiss his jaw, tugging his head back again, his hair sliding through your fingers until you knot them more tightly into the strands, running your mouth over the smooth line of his throat, listening to the speed of his heart, the blood that rushes through vein and artery with each beat.

Then you turn your head and settle your teeth over his jugular, still shivering a little with the effort required not to _bite_.

A stillness.

“Tyelpe – “

You can almost taste him already.

“The story suggests,” you say, shaping the words carefully, your voice muffled against his throat, “that you might. Consider having your throat torn out. Something of an _impediment_.”

Stillness, again. He strokes your back, gentle, as you fight down several entirely incompatible urges.

“It might be somewhat unpleasant,” he agrees, thoughtful, his voice unhurried. “Alright. What do you want, Tyelperinquar?”

“ _Why shouldn’t I_ ,” you say, the words coming out a snarl. “ _What are you going to say_ – “

“I suppose,” Annatar says, still thoughtful, his fingers sliding down to smooth over your waist, kneading at the arch of your hip, “if it would get you to stop affecting these endless airs of _moral superiority_ , of all things, it might almost be worthwhile – “

You make a sharp noise of frustration, and slide your teeth over his flesh, shuddering, his pulse hot against your tongue. His breath catches, fingers pressing harder against your hip as you turn your face into his neck, forcing his head back.

A fang nicks the skin, and you swallow, involuntarily, sucking at the wound.

He _tastes_ –

Something in the back of your head is all hot insistent pleasure. You lap at the slick of blood under your tongue, bearing down, feeling him warm against you, his breath coming in pants, the heat of his flesh caught beneath you as you touch.

“ _Tyelpe_ ,” he hisses, and you make an odd sound, half a croon, as he yanks at your hair, trying to pull you back. You shift, starting to sink your teeth in more deeply, and he stops at once, resting his hands tentatively against your shoulders, fingers spreading over the muscle.

You lap at his throat again, a low hum of enjoyment running through you, and rub your face against his neck. It feels so _satisfying_. You’re not sure anything has ever felt better.

His pulse speeds against your mouth, hands tightening against your skin.

Then he hits you.

You are halfway across the tent, rising to a crouch, snarling, almost before you realise what has happened. He snarls back, eyes hot, and you press a hand to the broken bone in your cheek, licking the last traces of blood from your mouth.

“Well?” you ask, voice slurred. “Was that not as much fun for _you_ as for _me_ – “

You pause, and spit out a tooth. You can already feel the itch of healing settling in, your body drawing itself back into alignment, faster than you ever can remember it being. You must be difficult to kill, you think, and try not to start laughing.

He glares at you, still panting, mouth wet and throat flushed with incipient bruises. Rubs his fingers over the marks you left, cuts already repairing themselves, only a faint slick of blood coming away.

“Don’t make threats,” he snaps, “unless you have the capacity to follow through. You’re not _demonstrating_ anything other than your _usual_ lack of forethought, Tyelperinquar – “

You sit back, and smile at him, showing the sharpness of your teeth.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, sucking your own blood from your fingers, where you touched your face. “You’ve _demonstrated_ that you’re not going to kill me again, Annatar. What else were you planning to do?”

***

Time passes.

You sit at the entrance to the tent, staring out at the night. Torches glint; the sky hangs low and dark over distant fires. The stars showing here and there past the cloud cover look – thin and wan, against the richness of the dark sky between them, and you feel an unanticipated stab of grief.

Closer at hand, the guards and servants Annatar seems to take everywhere with him keep a wary distance, talking in undertones; you catch only a few, cautious glances. It occurs to you to wonder what their usual tasks would be: what else Annatar’s plans might have involved.

After a while, he comes to stand beside you, the traces of your altercation already almost faded: clothes rearranged, hair neatly braided. He tweaks the silk of a sleeve as you watch, straightening the cuff.

“Here,” he says, and you glance up, to meet his frown. He reaches down, putting his hands to your face, and presses cartilage back into place with a crunching noise, ignoring your wince.

His fingers linger against your skin, and you turn your head away, looking aside.

“Are you going,” you say, eventually, “to let me go?”

A breeze drifts, faintly, over the rocks, scented with smoke and dust. Annatar sighs, and settles next to you, kneeling just under the canopy.

“Be realistic, Tyelpe,” he says.  “Where were you planning to go _to_? I think you might find the hospitality of your own kind – limited.”

“I haven’t exactly found yours a ceaseless delight,” you say. “You’re not nearly as good as you think you are at subtle threats.”

“Tyelpe – “

“Did you think this was going to be easy?” you ask. “It isn’t. You can’t just _undo everything_ – “

“No,” Annatar says, coolly. He looks at you, his gaze flicking over you in examination, and then reaches out to take your hand in his, the warmth of his fingers smoothing over the faint scars on your own.

“But you can’t go back, Tyelperinquar. Even I can’t undo _that_ , now.”

You smile, faintly.

“I _noticed_ ,” you say, linking your own fingers with his, and watching with some satisfaction as he seems unable to prevent himself from returning your smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Go look at corinthian-13's perfect illustration of Sauron's totally appropriate grasp of "boundaries" and "personal space" [here](http://corinthian-13.tumblr.com/post/154774098723/i-did-again-sorry-a-small-watercolor-fanart-of)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [like a refrain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9144181) by [saliache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache)




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